


Do we need more mistletoe?

by Lilachigh



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas, Fluff and Angst, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-06-25 23:40:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19756114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilachigh/pseuds/Lilachigh
Summary: It is nearly Christmas, but Aziraphale is feeling far from festive.





	1. Chapter 1

Do we need more mistletoe? by Lilachigh

Aziraphale stood gazing out of the bookshop window at the cold, wet streets of Soho. The lights from varied Christmas decorations flickered and gleamed and reflected off the wet road surface. People were laughing as they hurried past; laughing and shopping, heading out for evenings of fun. While he was - he assured himself that he wasn’t waiting, wasn’t peering, certainly wasn’t hanging around in case Crowley came home. He didn’t do waiting, peering or hanging around.

But it had been two days now.

Which of course, before the eleven years leading up to The Armageddon That Wasn’t, it would never have worried him if Crowley hadn’t appeared for two days, two weeks or two years! Well, maybe he would have been concerned if two years has passed.

But since TATW, things had changed. Oh it had all been so splendid to start with. They had staggered out of his bedroom, thinking that a day had passed, when in fact it had been a week. Six thousand years of longing and lust and love - well, it was probably a good job life had calmed down somewhat otherwise they might both have discorporated.

But oh it had been so good. Discovering each other - sometimes good - Anthony could do things with his tongue that Aziraphale hadn’t believed possible - sometimes bad - Anthony snored. Which had seemed cute and adorable at first, but he was now planning on a very secret miracle to stop it.

But there was a problem - although it wasn’t their sex life. In fact he was quite chuffed to discover that his, up until then, theoretical knowledge - you simply can’t read centuries of books without discovering a great deal - had helped him enormously with the practical side of the situation. And even if he’d been unsure, the way the demon lay there moaning and shivering, led him to believe everything was all right in that department.

So what was causing this - this - he wanted to say coolness, but it wasn’t even that. No, Anthony was being secretive: odd phone calls, vanishing for hours and now days at a time, with no excuse - not that he needed to give one of course, because Aziraphale was determined not to be a clingy angel. Or a jealous one. He’d read lots of human self-help books - indeed he had a whole section on the top floor of the shop, out of sight of all but the most needy because he felt they could be extremely dangerous if they fell into the wrong hands.

He knew about giving your partner “their own space”. Well, Anthony still had his apartment and they had spent nights there over the past couple of months, so the plants could be tended and indeed, it had been most cheering to see how pleased they were to see them both. And since Anthony had stopped shouting at them, one or two had even produced flowers! Little ones, to be sure, but signs of better things to come. 

He’d even sent his beloved there on his own, once or twice, because he was determined not to crowd him.

He knew about “not letting the sun go down on your anger” which hadn’t really applied to them, as far as he knew. He couldn’t believe he would ever be angry at Anthony. Did disliking the snoring count? Aziraphale worried at a fingernail - the first time in centuries his hands had not looked immaculate.

A sudden thought hit him - of course, it was Christmas Eve tomorrow and although neither of them actually celebrated the religious side of the event - they had both been in China for the actual birth, stopping and starting a war - he himself loved all the glitter and presents, the carols, decorating the tree. Why, there was a lovely fresh one growing through the floor in their bedroom right now and he’d planned on them hanging ornaments and tinsel and fairy lights this evening, then throwing themselves on the bed and making love by the flickering reds and yellows and blues.....

Yes, it was the Christmas holiday that was the problem. Aziraphale had read a lot about how miserable it made people - and he had to admit that Anthony was probably behind a lot of that unhappiness over the years. How easy it was to start arguments with close family, burn the turkey, drop the pudding and pies on the floor, run out of batteries and be faced with putting together impossible toys at four thirty in the morning when you were still battling too much alcohol from the night before.

So the demon was just extra busy - that was all! Busy demoning about, making peoples’ lives even more unhappy as they opened yet another parcel containing socks or underwear with cartoon characters printed on them.

And Aziraphale knew he had, perhaps, been a bit over the top with his own Christmas plans. The pile of presents wrapped with lovely tartan paper and bows, hidden away out of sight: the wonderful dinner he was planning for them at The Ritz: inviting the very sweet girls who danced around a pole in the nightclub next door to lunch on what the British called Boxing Day, and the rest of the world called the 26th December. He glanced round the bookshop - perhaps he had gone a slight tad overboard with the paper-chains and balloons, the holly and mistletoe. After all, they didn’t actually need mistletoe. They were doing very well in the kissing department as it was. But maybe he had been too exuberant, too full of his own plans?

Except - a trickle of what he knew was doubt ran up his spine and he almost shook out his wings in defense.

What if Anthony had found someone he liked better? Someone who was taller, thinner, more - now, was the saying hip, no....cool....no....sick....that didn’t sound right, but he had a nasty feeling it was. To be fair, he couldn’t think of any other demon or angel that would appeal to his demon, but he couldn’t be certain. A most un-angelic sensation swooped through his body - overwhelming, shaming, so powerful that some of the smaller paperbacks hid in fear behind the collected sets of Encyclopaedia Britannica and weren’t seen again for weeks.

Jealousy. So that was what it felt like. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he was thrilled to have experienced a completely new sensation or disgusted with himself that he was capable of such a thing. But if that was what had happened, that Anthony had found someone else, then, of course, he would have to let him go. Not make a scene, not cry and beg and miracle himself thinner. Just say, “Well, it’s been fun, but I’m going to be very busy in the New Year so perhaps we shouldn’t see as much of each other.”

He retreated to their bedroom, locked the door, pulled all the curtains tight against the dark outside and, not even removing his shoes!, lay on the bed and gazed hopelessly into a future without Crowley, repeating to himself “It’s been fun....but perhaps we shouldn’t see as much of each other in the New Year.....”

tbc


	2. "Cancel Christmas!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale believes Crowley is tiring of him. Crowley is just tired - and very drunk!

Do we need more mistletoe? by Lilachigh

Chapter Two: “Cancel Christmas!”

Anthony J Crowley was drunk. Not totally blasted, so he couldn’t feel or think, and not happily tipsy as he had been recently with his angel when they’d tried mixing cocktails from some very old bottles they’d discovered in the bookshop cellar. Note: creme de menthe, vodka and 29 year old single malt whisky makes a very powerful drink and it would be wise not to try it unless you happen to be a 6000 year old demon or angel.

Yes, that had been a happy intoxication, ending up, as far as he could remember, with some sort of game that meant for every mouthful you took (of drink) you had to remove a piece of clothing. They hadn’t got very far because he’d got impatient and ripped and torn and insisted - not that there had been any resistance. Quite the reverse.

No, this was the sort of drunk which meant you didn’t want to move but you couldn’t shut off your thoughts.

He was sitting, legs sprawled, shirt unbuttoned, staring at his house plants who shifted uneasily under his blurred gaze. An array of empty bottles were scattered around on the floor and he was well aware that he needed a shower. 

“I’m a failure as a demon,” he told the plants confidentially and they nodded their leaves in agreement, then shook them as his face contorted with anger. “A failure as a demon, a failure as a friend, a failure as a lover, and I hate Christmas!”

Through the fog of alcohol, he remembered adding a line to a silly Hollywood film about Robin Hood (he’d been in Los Angeles doing a temptation involving sex, girls and fast cars, but found that the stars involved were far more competent than him in ruining their lives). “Cancel Christmas!” that was what Alan Rickman (whom he’d got to know quite well and given him lots of helpful tips when he came to play a role in another silly film about little wizards) had shouted. 

“Yes, they should cancel Christmas, the whole stinking affair.” He waved his glass at the tallest plant who tried to shrink a bit. “Everything was going fine and then the Season of Good Will has to happen and my angel will realise just what sort of entity I really am. And will he stay with me then?....will he hell! He’ll find someone else, someone who enjoys tinsel, enjoys watching his revolting little pal, Clarence, in that wretched Jimmy Stewart film, enjoys giving presents...enjoys....mistletoe!”

Everything had been bloody fantastic up to the beginning of December. There had been a lot of sex and, to be quite honest, he’d been surprised by how much his angel knew about that particular subject. Maybe there was something to be said in favour of reading. In fact, once, when Aziraphale was out shopping, Crowley had sneaked a look at an old edition of the Kama Sutra and realised that in a lot of ways he was a mere beginner.

But oddly enough, it hadn’t been the human side of the sex that had enthralled him. No man or woman would ever know the sensation of wing touching, from the lightest of flicks, one feather on another, that sent shivers screaming across your skin, to the power when you tightened your wings round your partner and his enfolded your entire body as the passion and the love soared through you both.

That first week - although he’d been just as surprised as Azriphale to find that seven days had passed - had been bliss. Forget how many angels or demons could dance on the head of a pin: how many times could you have sex without discorporating from the pleasure it gave. But OK, life that quietened down a bit afterwards. They’d needed a rest. But they’d gone on discovering things about each other: good - Aziraphale let him watch stock-car racing on TV; bad - Aziraphale refused to miss a single episode of some hideous Saturday night show he called “Strictly”, which Crowley had hopefully imagined was about bondage and whips and chains but turned out to be watching idiot humans skip around a ballroom wearing lycra and sequins. 

His angel’s liking for dancing did worry him a lot. Crowley had secretly destroyed in fire and flame Aziraphale’s membership form to join the local Morris dancing group.

But things had started to fall apart when he found the presents. He’d always hated Christmas - well, perhaps not so much a few centuries ago - lot of eating and drinking and wassailing (Crowley had the feeling that his idea of wassailing wasn’t actually accurate).  
But it was the last thirty or forty years that had worn him down to his last feather. All that tempting; rushing around the country making ovens fail to light on Christmas morning, for in-laws to decide at the very last moment to visit, for pipes to burst and toys to break. 

(Note: Crowley would never, ever admit, even to his angel, that he always checked the child had another toy waiting to be undone and he never damaged teddy-bears. Somethings were just beyond the bounds of evil and anyway, he had once peered inside Beelzebub’s bedroom and seen what was lying on her pillow!)

So he hated Christmas but was prepared to put up with the tinsel and carol singing for his angel’s sake. But the pile of presents; tastefully wrapped in tartan paper with a frothy flourish of bows, and all the labels bearing his name, hidden away at the back of a cupboard, chilled (if that had been possible) to the bone.

Because he had no idea, no idea at all, what to buy Aziraphale. He might have managed one present - tartan socks, tartan boxers, perhaps. But there had to be at least ten or twelve packages!

He’d started going out on his own, scouring the shops, looking, searching for the perfect presents - and failing. And the more he looked, the more depressed he became. Books were out, obviously. Food likewise. There was nothing he could think of to give his beloved for Christmas. None of his demon wiles helped at all. He was a failure. And the more he searched, the more he drank, the more he realised Aziraphale was beginning to look at him in a questioning way. He knew what that meant; his angel was beginning to wonder if they were right for each other.

It was well-known, a fact made possible by Crowley’s work over the years, that Christmas was the favourite time of the year for couples to break up. So it was all his fault. Crowley lifted the Scotch bottle and gulped down more whisky. He had to face reality; in two days time, Aziraphale would probably confront him, when his twelve presents had been given and he’d received nothing in return, and say “It’s been fun....but perhaps we shouldn’t see as much of each other in the New Year.....”

tbc


	3. A word from our Sponsor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief hiatus in proceedings while we listen to a message from above.

Do we need more mistletoe 

by Lilachigh

Chapter 3 A word from our sponsor

Hi everyone, God here. Yes, I know you don’t often hear from me directly, but I have a few odd moments spare today and as so many of you have been petitioning me about Aziraphale and Crowley, I thought I’d just let you know that their problems are not my fault.

OK, I admit that because I wanted a little fun, I manouevred them into each other’s paths over the centuries, just to see what would happen - but you know the old saying (well, not that old, of course, in the scheme of things!) You can take a horse to water but you can’t make it drink. They didn’t have to like each other, they didn’t have to work out The Arrangement and they really, really didn’t need to fall in love. And, likewise, they didn’t have to be so stupid as to mess it all up!

Yes, all right, I could have stopped it happening, but when you give humans free will, you sometimes feel that perhaps that gift should be extended to angels and truthfully, it can get dreadfully boring if you know you can make things happen just the way you want, without any challenge. And boy, have they proved challenging! There is a filing cabinet just full of memos about Aziraphale and I believe my counterpart elsewhere has just as many complaints about Crowley. In fact, they tried to forward them on to me on the understanding that he was one of mine to start with. I told them in no uncertain terms what I thought of that idea!

So, to get back to the problem in hand: what should I do? Interfere? I could easily come up with a scenario where one or the other needed saving from some dreadful ending and the other one had to rescue him. But that’s so cliched and I do try hard to keep the world original.

Do nothing? Tempting, because apart from this morning, I am busy, busy, busy, but if I just let it slide, all that will happen is you’ll all keep on at me, day and night to sort it out. Which is totally unfair as it really isn’t my problem - it’s theirs.

I suppose you could all vote on the matter! That would a democratic thing to do. But in some odd way, I really want to see just how strong their love is for each other. Because it shouldn’t exist, should it?

Climb every mountain, ford every stream, follow every rainbow, till you find your dream.

My favourite song. They both hate it, but, oddly enough, they act it out, every day.

tbc


	4. Just one  present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a very wet demon makes amends.

Do we need more mistletoe? by Lilachigh

Chapter 4 Just one present.

Aziraphale walked slowly around the lake in St James’ Park. It was nearly dark, the park was closed, but no one had stopped him passing through the gates. His feet made no sound on the grassy verge and only a few sleepy ducks in the reeds raised their heads from under their wings to watch him pass by.

He felt the weight of his unhappiness sitting on his shoulders like a great, dark cloud; indeed he was fairly sure that even if he wanted to unfurl his wings, he wouldn’t be able to at the moment.

But he walked on, doggedly, because he knew it was down to him to sort out the problem with Crowley. He loved the demon with every ethereal particle in his earthly body but he was also only too well aware that making the right decision about anything was not his lover’s best attribute. He was too hasty, too likely rush off without considering all the consequences of his actions. Indeed, he was easily distracted from the task in hand - Aziraphale felt a flood of warmth cover him from head to toe as he remembered just how easily he’d been able to do that in the past few months. He’d only had to touch Crowley in a certain part of his anatomy for the demon to lose all self control instantly.

“I need to have it out with him, plain and square,” he muttered to himself. “If he wants his freedom, then, of course, he shall have it.” He pushed away the thought of him on his knees, his arms tight around Crowley’s legs, begging for him to stay. “I just want to be quite sure that it isn’t something I’ve done, or not done, that’s changed everything.”

He sighed and shivered, wishing he’d thought to put on his lovely thick winter coat but he’d left the bookshop in a hurry and now, on this very chilly Christmas Eve, he would have to be careful he didn’t catch a human cold. Oh, yes, of course he could miracle it away, but that sounded like the easy way out. He’d only used that over the past centuries on a few occasions - the Black Death, the Plague, the sweating sickness of Tudor times, oh and the Spanish flu - but the common cold was something he’d always thought of as something he should suffer nobly and with lots of lovely hot ginger drinks.

Suddenly he stumbled, his foot caught against glass and he heard what sounded like an empty bottle roll away down the path.

“That was half full, angel. Awflou, awffull, awful waste of good whisky.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale peered through the darkness, then gazed downwards as a plaintive cheep sounded. “My dear, is that you? What on earth are you doing?”

In the gloom, he could just make out Crowley lying on a muddy bank on the other side of the railings, his legs stretched out into the water. He seemed to be holding a terrified duck on his lap.

“What does it look as if I’m doing? Sitting down! I’m wet.”

Aziraphale stepped over the railings to his side. His demon’s long legs, encased tonight in black jeans, were indeed under water. Indeed the water had shrunk the material so they looked painfully, sinfully tight. Aziraphale gulped: this was not the time for noticing that!

“But....why....?” It wasn’t often that the angel was at a loss for words. Usually he had far too many. 

“Saw duck - it was drowning - upside down - could have left it - then thought....” Crowley waved the duck around in the air.....”thought you would have saved it....so I did.”

Aziraphale blinked hard and the duck wriggled free with a thankful burp and took flight across the lake to hide on the other side and not come out again for a week when he boringly regaled his friends and family with tales how he’d been having a late evening snack off the bottom of the lake when he’d been seized up and held by something evil and how an angel had come along and saved him, until they got cross and reported him to the chief swan.

“Well, dearheart, that was kind of you, but don’t you think you should get out of the water now. You don’t look very comfortable.”

“I saved him for you.”

“So you said. Kind, very kind. Always said you were kind at heart. Nice, even.”

Crowley shook his head violently. “Not nice...not kind...just....you deserve someone nice...someone kind...someone who...enjoys things like food and books and....Christmas.”

Ignoring the mud and other unmentionables that the ducks had deposited on the bank, Aziraphale sat down next to the demon. “My dear, you are very, very drunk. Let’s get you sobered up and home and then we can discuss everything.”

“Not really drunk.” The demon shuddered and the alcohol vanished from his body. “Just sad.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath - this was going to be the hardest thing he’d ever said since lying to God about the flaming sword. “I can quite understand - I appreciate that things have been difficult for you recently. My fault, all my fault. I am not the easiest of people to live with, I’m sure and I do tend to get carried away and forget that not everyone is keen on all the things that I like. And if you’ve found someone else....some nice demon....or perhaps you just want to be on your own again....well, it will be...will be....” To his horror he realised tears were rolling down his face and plopping into his lap.

Crowley reached out and touched one of the tears as it glistened its way down a plump cheek. It sat on the tip of his long finger and slowly, very slowly, he raised it to his mouth and sucked the liquid into a mouth that felt dry and bereft until the tear touched his tongue and all his senses exploded.

The angel loved him! Nothing else could possibly explain the sensations he was receiving. He felt his wings stir and rise, fluttering in ecstasy. 

He turned his head and Aziraphale was lost in the depth of his golden eyes. All his doubts and fears melted away and he felt his wings break out and with one beat wrap round the demon, holding him close to his body.

“We got lost,” he whispered and felt Crowley nod. 

“I thought....” he found there were no words to express how he’d felt. “I couldn’t find you the perfect present,” was all he could say.

Aziraphale tightened his wings even more. “You’re the only present I’ve ever wanted in 6000 years. I thought you were bored with me.”

“Bored!” There was a splashing and swearing as the demon leapt to his feet, bringing the angel up with him. “How in all names of hell could I ever find you boring?”

Aziraphale burrowed closer. “I felt I’d been stupid with all the Christmas preparations. I’d forgotten how much you hate it. I thought I’d driven you away. That you’d found someone else. I’m sorry. You’ll get one present and one only.”

“Oh.” For a second Crowley was deeply disappointed as he’d had a hankering deep inside him to know what was inside all those tartan wrapped packages. 

The demon sniffed. “We seem to be more in need of hot baths. I think I’ve ruined your trousers, angel. I’m sorry. And I think my jeans have shrunk.”

Aziraphale was tempted to miracle away the mud and duck deposits that were clinging to them, then stopped. A hot bath in their big tub, the two of them, at home, together. Nothing could be more perfect. And perhaps he’d light just a few candles that smelt of pine and candy canes to place round the bath! One thing he did know, they certainly did not need any more mistletoe.

the end.


End file.
